


The Rugged Pyrrhus, or Holiday By Mistake

by beer_good



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Braavos, Crossover, Essos, Gen, References to Hamlet, Season/Series 06, Shakespeare Quotations, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 22:22:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7139999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beer_good/pseuds/beer_good
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Izembaro, the arrogant leader of a small Braavosi theatre troupe specializing in bad rhymes and fart jokes, sometimes gets very drunk and claims to be from a city called Lundon. Nobody really believes him. But his leading lady remembers that one time when he went off on a long soliloquy on stage...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rugged Pyrrhus, or Holiday By Mistake

**Author's Note:**

> Come on, GoT casts Richard E Grant as a bitter hammy actor and nobody writes a _[Withnail& I](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6pqFI8_LOmI)_ crossover? You thought I was just going to walk right by that?

**Title:** The Rugged Pyrrhus, or Holiday By Mistake  
**Author:** Beer Good   
**Fandom:** _Game of Thrones_ / _Withnail & I_ (GoT season 6)  
**Rating:** PG13  
**Word count:** ~900  
**Summary:** Izembaro, the arrogant leader of a small Essos theatre troupe specializing in bad rhymes and fart jokes, sometimes gets very drunk and claims to be from a city called Lundon. Nobody really believes him. But his leading lady remembers that one time when he went off on a long soliloquy on stage...

 _“Look on every exit as being an entrance somewhere else.”_  
\- Tom Stoppard, _Rosencrantz And Guildenstern Are Dead_

 **The Rugged Pyrrhus** , or **Holiday By Mistake**

When he gets drunk, Izembaro tells the most unbelievable stories. Well, not every time; the supposed leader of their theatre troupe gets drunk a _lot_ , and most of the time the most unbelievable thing that passes his lips before everyone stops listening is that he's the greatest actor/writer/director in all of Essos and his immense talent is wasted on both his fellow actors and the audience. Lady Crane has acted for twenty years and she's heard the same thing from a hundred bad actors, so she tunes it out, thinks of that one scene in the otherwise abominable script she can make her own, focuses on tomorrow's performance and pours herself another drink.

But sometimes, something comes over him. Usually after a "good" performance, one where the audience laughs at the right fart jokes, boos the villain rather than the hero, and doesn't pelt them with rotten fruit (or fresh fruit, for that matter). The sort of performance that most of the actors are happy with, and she's learned to live with. You'd think he'd be happy too, or at least be the same smug arsehole he usually is and rub his alleged genius in their faces, which she suspects counts as happiness to him.

Instead, on those nights while the others celebrate, Izembaro just becomes sullen and withdrawn. He drinks hard, staring off into the distance, only to suddenly latch onto some passing phrase and go off on a rant. She's not sure where he's from originally, when he's sober(ish) he usually brushes the question off; "I'm from everywhere", "The stage is my home", "I've always been here, it's everyone else who's passing through", etc. But on nights like these, he's only too happy to give details, as impossible as they are. Self-driving carriages that cross countries in a day, long-haired minstrels with lutes that roar like wild animals (and having something to do with beetles), houses that reach the sky, ovens that cook food at the flick of a switch, taverns where the finest of wines are available to anyone who walks in off the street ... A place where playwrights and actors are treated like royalty, where even someone like _him_ is merely one of many greats such as, and a long list of slurred strange names follow. Where utter excrement like what they just performed wouldn't even be good enough for something called Tellev Ishun, which judging by his tone had to be a very disreputable troupe. Where he has true friends who would never leave him drunk and alone in the rain to stumble into strange doorways, whatever that means. This usually goes on until he passes out. The next morning, he meets any questions with a look of utter disdain.

She usually thinks nothing of it; whatever his faults, the man obviously has imagination, she just wishes it came through in his work more, he might actually be a decent actor if it did. Like that one time, that he apparently forgot the next day, but she hasn't.

They were performing _The Bloody Hand_ , and they'd just chopped off Stark's head, which rolled over to where Izembaro was standing in the wings. And something came over him, probably related to the pint of wine he'd drunk before the show. He picked up the prop head and stared at it as he walked over to the middle of the stage - still dressed as dead King Robert - and went off on a completely unscripted monologue, which had no business being in this play. She still remembers much of it (a lifetime of learning lines) at least until the boos and the attempts by the other actors to turn it into a joke, doing cartwheels behind him and falling on their asses, drowned him out. He had that same look he gets when he talks about Lundon, wherever it is; intense, dreamy, painfully REAL.

_Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times, and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is!..._

Eventually, he had stopped when a tomato hit him square in the chest in the middle of a line ( _...O, that that earth, which kept the world in awe, should patch a wall to expel -_ ). He'd walked offstage without another word, was gone for hours, and only returned late that night. She heard him stumble in and, buoyed by another shot of rum, got up to talk to him.

"Izembaro? I just wanted to say... That monologue you gave. I have no idea what that was, but it was really good. _You_ were really good. Did you write that?"

He just sneered at her, or tried, at least. He seemed very tired (and drunk, obviously).

"If there's more where that came from," his reaction seemed to say that there was, "I'd love to hear it. Hell, I'd love to perform it. That bit about the dust of great men stopping up up bungholes, that's the sort of theatre we need. Not for this stage, obviously, but there are companies out there doing things other than fart jokes - as great as yours are," she quickly added.

That got a faint smile out of him. "No, they're not. And no, I didn't write it. I have no right to it. But thank you."

She'd tried to reason with him, appeal to his vanity; if he really was from where he said he was, who'd ever know? He could put his own name on those plays, he could be famous. Who would know? Who would it hurt? But he just shook his head, mumbling something about nymphs and orisons. She's not sure at what point he fell asleep. But she could swear, in the faint light of the one candle burning, that he was still smiling.


End file.
